


Dancing in the Dark

by elegia (starcrawler)



Series: It Gets Stranger [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Framing Story, Gen, Lovecraftian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 01:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrawler/pseuds/elegia
Summary: Richie Tozier is an old man living by the sea in solitude. Nineteen regretful years go by without a hiccup until, one curious day, a young boy appears and turns everything upside down.





	Dancing in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm riding on my It renaissance right now and am writing these little stories left and right. This belongs in the world of "Bill Denbrough Beats the Devil (III)." You won't need to have read that thing (it's 41,660 words long!) but if you think this was worth reading or you like the concept of an It and Stranger Things crossover I highly recommend checking that one out.
> 
> Also, no I do not intend to keep writing one-shots. I will write multi-chapter-stories in the future, but right now I am in school and time is a premium. I think bigger projects will have to be reserved for summertimes only.

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

\- William Shakespeare, _ The Tempest _

_ Richie Tozier woke at the time when the sky had just begun to turn from black to navy. He sat up slowly in his hard bed, groaning as his joints popped. He gave a sideways glance to the space beside him. He always seemed to sleep on one side of the bed, as if to reserve space for someone who would come later. They never did, and he’d kept that space open for nineteen years. _

_ He glanced out the cloudy window and onto the sparse vegetation poking out of the dunes of his neighborhood, population: one. He sighed; it was time to get up. He had to fix the roof and the fence today. _

_ He rose carefully. The last time he’d risen recklessly he’d thrown out his back and was bedridden for three days. He could not afford that anymore. _

_ He poured himself a glass of water from the jug and drank desperately, gulping audibly. He glanced once again outside. The cock should be crowing soon, especially at this time of the year. _

_ And sure enough, there it was. “Gimme a break,” Richie muttered, and he went to the shed and grabbed his tools. Forcing himself to whistle, he hobbled over to the fence. Yes, he would start on the fence. There were two stakes and some nails he needed to replace, as one of his goats had recently died of tetanus after getting scraped by a rusty nail that was poking out. Poor Jeb couldn’t move his jaw for three days before God struck with mercy. _

_ He pulled and plied and nailed, and in only a few minutes he felt the sweat rolling down his back. A cool breeze blew through the farm, and he shivered. _Don’t want to catch a cold.

_ And so he worked faster and harder, until his fence was completely done. It was noon. The sun was beginning to drive the fog away. He had no idea time had already passed so quickly. He snorted. _ Since time flies while you’re having fun, I’m really getting old if this is my idea of fun. _ As usual, Richie looked around at his imaginary audience, hearing bits of canned laughter as they roared and cheered. “Thank you, everyone. You really are a wonderful crowd,” he muttered. And then the audience became his fields, and he remembered that he was completely alone. _

_ He started back to his cabin, and glanced at the roof. He considered for a while, and then shrugged. The roof was not something all that necessary; the leak could easily be remedied by the pail he always placed under the hole. Fixing it would be a piece of cake, a task for any day. But today, he did not want to work anymore. The sea called his name. _

_ Slicing a piece from the ham that hung from the ceiling, Richie ate slowly. His appetite never seemed quite there. But he didn’t mind. He could proudly say he had never been fat in his entire life. He was malnourished as a child and always eating the wrong things as an adult. But those wrong things never made him big, oh no. Not like old Haystack. Richie laughed a little at the thought of his old friend. _

_ He changed from his sweaty clothes and grabbed his hat. He stepped outside and went towards the direction of the constant roar. _

_ The open ocean near Richie’s cabin was a beautiful thing, with Poseidon’s might bared at its rawest. Waves and foam and salt battered the sheer cliffs he now looked down on. It had been beautiful when he had first moved, all those years ago. The sound of the sea could be heard from his dwelling, and he had loved it. Now, it was irritating, numbing, and mentally sterilizing. _

_ He had no idea why he wanted to see it today of all days. It was beautiful. He could admit that. But living in the same area for nineteen years had not expanded his appreciation for it. _

_ He sat on the old rotted bench he had built all those years ago, and let his mind wander, as it did quite often now. _

_ He thought of something’s and nothing’s, of days of old, when times weren’t so tough, and when he was happy. They were distant memories now, and he now struggled to remember some. Was he getting Alzheimer’s, or just old? The distressing thing was he did not know. He could never know. There was nobody around who shared his memories. It was not his destiny to know. _

_ After an amount of time Richie could not tell, he heard a rustle coming from behind him. He stood and turned, having learned long ago he no longer had the privilege of being able to turn his head to see things. _

_ Behind the bench and among the bushes was a young boy, no more than twelve. He wore plain brown clothes and overalls, looking like a boy from the previous century rather than the present. His hair was black and his skin was pale. Even from the distance Richie could see the vast collection of freckles that dotted his face. It was a beautiful face, young and pure and rather feminine in its nature. When the boy got closer he could see he had grey eyes. He looked slightly like Eddie Kaspbrak. _

_ “Sir?” the boy asked timidly. _

_ “What?” Richie asked, not unkindly. He may have been gruff but his heart was as soft as they came. _

_ “Do you have some food to spare?” _

_ Richie pondered the question. He had the ham on the ceiling, and more that were smoking. He had enough crushed flour to make bread for an entire winter. Surely he had plenty. _

_ “Yeah. You hungry?” _

_ The boy nodded. _

_ “Alright, c’mon, you. Let’s get you something to eat. You look like a skeleton.” _

_ “So, you gonna tell me who you are?” Richie asked while the boy chewed slowly. _

_ The boy swallowed. “What do you want to know?” _

_ Richie rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Mystery, I want to know what your name is and why you’re here. And where are your parents?” _

_ The boy pondered those questions. “I can’t tell you my name. I don’t want my parents to find me. That’s why I’m here: I ran away.” _

_ Richie felt his left eyebrow rise. “And what was so bad about your home life that made you want to run away?” _

_ The boy’s face paled, and tears swam in his eyes. Alarmed, Richie grabbed his handkerchief and handed it to him. _

_ “They-They’d beat me ‘cause I was too girly. ‘Pansy,’ they called me. I had to, sir! I had to!” _

_ Richie felt conflicted. He did think the boy was a bit soft. Not because he was girly, but because he couldn’t handle a beating. Back in his day, this boy wouldn’t have survived an hour. But who was he to say? Maybe his whuppin's were actually abusive and harmful? Best not to scoff. _

_ “Hey, kid. Kid,” said Richie gently, or as gently as he could manage. The boy looked up tearfully. Richie sighed. “Kid, I gotta be honest with you. I think you should go back to parents. You can’t choose your mom and dad, and no matter what they do, no matter how much they mess up, they’re still your parents. But if you wanna clear your mind a bit, maybe make your decision by actually thinking instead of doing something stupid like running away, you’re free to stay here while you do it.” _

_ “Th-Thank you, sir,” said the boy gratefully, sniffing. _

_ “But I’m gonna need an extra hand to help make all the food you’re eating, so you oughtta make yourself useful, eh?” _

_ The boy pouted. Richie glanced at him as he began to put the dishes in the sink. “God, look at you young people: so soft you can’t even do any chores.” _

_ The boy scoffed, offended. “I’m not soft! I’ll show you!” _

_ Richie grinned. “You better.” _

_ After Richie and the boy cleared out the second bedroom for him, Richie glanced up at the sky. There was that yellow tint that came with the late afternoon, possibly at that time of the year around four o’clock. Just enough time before supper. _

_ “C’mon kid. I gotta fix this leaky roof.” _

_ Richie grabbed his ladder from the cellar and pulled it to the corner of his cabin. “Get on.” _

_ Richie passed him the boards and the planks on the ground, and once the materials were gathered he climbed onto the roof himself. _

_ For nearly two hours they hammered and fitted and nailed away. Both were soaked in sweat afterwards. _

_ Richie climbed down, and the boy followed. “Thanks, kid. Now go wash your hands. We’re gonna have supper soon.” _

_ And for some strange reason, Richie was excited for the first time in a long time about supper. He would finally have company after so many years of solitude. Maybe an audience for his jokes, which had been gathering dust for so long. _

_ They sat opposite of each other at the small table. There was soup that Richie had been making for the past few days, and bread that was baked the night before. _

_ The boy sat down and began to reach for the bread, but Richie slapped his hand. _

_ “Ow!” _

_ “What, you’re gonna tell me you don’t say grace?” _

_ “I don’t.” _

_ “Oh, I weep for the future. C’mon, kid. Say it with me or you’re not getting anything: Bless us O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” _

_ Richie was no Catholic, or even Christian, despite having attended mass every Sunday with his parents as a child. But he knew how sensitive the youth were to religion, and he knew it would piss the kid off. But the kid still said it, albeit grudgingly. He knew the prayer by heart already. _

_ They ate rather quickly, with Richie feeling energized for the first time in a very long time. _

_ Once they finished, Richie grabbed the plates. “Alright kid, you worked hard enough. Go to sleep.” _

_ The boy nodded. “Thank you, sir.” And with that he was off to bed. _

_ Richie washed the dishes and placed them back in the cabinet. He thought about what had happened today, and how utterly bizarre it was. _

_ He stepped outside and onto the porch and grabbed a cigarette from his jacket. He lit it and watched the darkening landscape abandoned by the setting sun. _

_ Why was he being so nice to the kid? Because he reminded him of Eddie? Probably. The boy was soft, though. It was typical of parents to spoil their children, nowadays. _Runs away 'cause he can't even take a beating._ He scrunched his face up in disgust, and threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his boot. _

_ He went to bed and went to sleep quite quickly. Richie was a deep sleeper, and could never notice any disturbances while he was unconscious. And it was just a real shame, as he never noticed the boy standing under the doorframe to his room, watching him sleep. The boy stood for a while, and then turned and walked out the cabin. _

_ Richie let the boy have his day to contemplate. He knew he had many turbulent emotions to sort, and since they’d gotten so many things done yesterday, they both deserved a break from work today. _

_ So Richie sat on the rocking chair on his porch. He lit himself another cigarette. He watched the birds in the sky as he smoked. _Wish you were here, Stan the Man. You’d love it.

_ He had been sitting there for hours when he heard the distressed bleating of his goats. He stood up, cigarette still in his mouth. There it was again! He rushed over to the scene, and saw one of his goats lying on the ground in a pool of its own blood and entrails. All the other goats stood in a circle around it. _

_ “Oh no, no,” Richie muttered. He approached the one in the center. It was already dead. _

_ He looked around at the goats that stood in the circle. They stood completely still and had not moved since he had first laid his eyes on them. Except for one. _

_ There was a new goat that Richie had never seen before. He knew immediately that that goat was not his, and it wasn’t because his poor memory could not recall buying or breeding it. There was something different about it. Its coat was pitch black, dim as the darkest night. Its eyes were beady and yellow and the slit that was its pupil had completely straight edges. And its horns were coated in blood. _

_ “What the hell…” _

_ He ushered the new goat into his barn. The other goats had not moved at all and still stood unnervingly still in that perfect circle. He sat down on his bench beside the goat and glanced downwards a bit. It was a female. _

_ He grabbed his pail and put it under. She had better flood him with milk for killing his other goat or he was going to have a big dinner tonight. The goat stared at him without moving. Richie grabbed the udders and did the motion. _

_ And blood filled the pail. _

_ Richie stared at the goat, horrified. She stared back calmly. He stood up and kicked the pail over, startling the goat. _

_ “What the hell are you…” he muttered. _

_ He let her back out. The goats now moved about randomly, grazing and avoiding the dead one. _

_ He walked back into the house. Where had all that time gone? It was already time for supper. The boy was waiting for him at the table. _

_ Richie grabbed his foodstuffs from the counter and placed them on the table. _

_ “Alright. Let’s say grace.” The boy rolled his eyes. _

_ “Why don’t you lead us?” Richie asked, eyeing him carefully. _

_ The boy sighed again. “Bless us O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” _

_ “Alright, tuck in.” _

_ They ate in silence. The boy seemed quite preoccupied with his thoughts. _

_ “So,” said Richie, breaking the silence. The boy glanced up. “Have you made up your mind?” _

_ The boy smiled. “Yeah. If it’s alright with you I’d like to stay for another night. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.” _

_ Richie nodded. “Good.” _

_ He had no idea what it was about him, but the boy, who had been endearing and cute the day before, now seemed malevolent and awful. He knew the goat had something to do with him. He just knew it. _

_ Later that night, Richie went to bed and lay on his side facing the window. He pretended to sleep. _

_ Sure enough, later in the night, he heard the soft sound of feet padding on the floor. There was a pause as the boy passed his room. He seemed to be staring at Richie’s back. And then he walked outside. _

_ After waiting for ten minutes, Richie got up. He walked quietly to his closet and grabbed his coat and hat and gun. He put them on silently and held the gun and then walked to the door. He stood there for a minute, still as a statue, waiting for any sign of the boy. He glanced at the crucifix hanging on the wall, the only item of faith in his entire cabin. He took it with him. _

_ Exiting the cabin, Richie looked around. His heart pounded. He had not felt this sort of fear for a long time. _

_ He glanced at the woods. Something seemed to draw him there. He walked over to it. He walked into the foliage, ignoring the stings and the scratches. He made sure to stay quiet. _

_ Once he walked deeply enough into the forest, he saw a faint glow coming before him. Cautiously, Richie walked forward some more. And then he was able to see a clearing. He saw him. _

_ The boy stood naked by a fire. There was a primitive fire pit built of rocks and a spit made of sticks. On the spit was the dead goat. Richie almost slapped his forehead. Why had he forgotten to get rid of the carcass? Had something made him forget? _

_ Beside the boy was the black goat. Under its udders was a pail filled to the brim with a dark liquid that Richie knew without prompting was blood. The boy dipped his left index and middle finger in the blood and traced patterns across his front, which faced away from Richie. _

_ Richie watched in shock and disgust as the boy began to dance around the goat that cooked over the fire. He spoke a strange tongue that Richie could not understand as he danced. It was vulgar and dirty, but also seductive and smooth. _

_ Around him, strange beasts emerged. Snakes, ravens, and more goats came to witness the boy’s ritual. _

_ Suddenly, the boy stopped. Without turning around, he said, “I’m really sorry, sir.” _

_ Forcing his voice to be still as he spoke, Richie asked, “What are you doing?” _

_ The boy turned around. On his forehead was a cross made of blood, and a star on his throat. Where a boy’s chest was usually flat, his was like a woman’s, with full breasts. His legs were those of a goat’s, furry and bent backwards. He stood on cloven hooves. His eyes glowed the color of mercury. _

_ The boy looked sad. “I can’t help what I am, sir. I really tried to stop. I did, I swear! I just can’t help my nature.” _

_ Richie held out the crucifix with a shaking hand, but the boy smiled sadly. “I’m not what you think I am.” _

_ “And what are you?” Richie’s legs began to shake. _

_ The boy opened his mouth to speak his name, and Richie fell forward, dead. _

_ The animals moved in on the body. _

_ The boy knelt beside the corpse. “I’m your fool.” _

_ Richie woke in pitch blackness. There was nothing around him as far as his eyes could see. He was dead. _

_ Eyes. Did he have eyes? Did he still have a body? He glanced down and sighed in relief when he saw his hands. _

_ “Hello? Is there anyone there?” Richie was startled to hear that his voice, which rang loudly in the silence, was that of his prepubescent self’s. It was high and reedy and couldn’t do good impressions. _

_ He walked around aimlessly for what felt like days. Had it been days? He could not tell. He could not tell if time even existed in this place. Was it even a place? There seemed to be no space, and yet space seemed eternal. _

_ After succumbing to helpless dread, and with his heart filled with the anguish of his lonely existence, and of what was likely his eternity, Richie laughed hoarsely for noone to hear. _

1

_ Hawkins, October 16, 1987 _

“Bill, what the fuck?” Eddie Kaspbrak muttered.

All eleven of them sat together in Dustin’s living room. It was almost Halloween, and Bill Denbrough thought it an especially appropriate time for a horror story.

“So, how was it?” Bill asked eagerly.

“That might be too much,” said Beverly Marsh. Ben Hanscom and Will Byers nodded in agreement, with Ben’s chins flapping up and down.

“I thought it was great,” said Mike Wheeler. “You guys just didn’t get the deeper meanings of this story.”

“Uh huh,” said Beverly, unimpressed.

“Just a few questions,” said Dustin Henderson. “What happened to everyone else? Who was that kid? And why was he doing this satanic ritual?”

“Some questions are better left unexplained,” said Bill mysteriously.

Richie snorted. “Bill, I’m flattered you chose me to be the main guy. I thought it was a pretty good story.”

“Thanks, Richie.”

“Of course you thought it was good, Richie. You always liked the fucked-up stuff,” said Eddie.

“Like your mom, Eds?”

They broke out into another argument, the third that day.

Bill glanced at Mike, hoping to share a laugh, but instead he saw him looking rather downtrodden. Bill understood; that was how he looked every time he looked in the mirror. They would be leaving for Derry in three days. Everything was already packed, as they had never truly had the time to completely unpack from their exodus. And now it was time to return.

Bill placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder, who jumped, startled.

“It’s okay, Mike. We’ll call you guys everyday. It’ll be like we’re still living in the same town,” said Bill softly.

Mike hesitated, then smiled wanly. “I know. It’s just not gonna be the same, y’know?”

Everyone now watched the two, sad and soft smiles adorning their faces.

“Oh cheer up, less-attractive brother of mine,” said Richie bracingly. He put his arm around Mike’s shoulders. “What'd'ya think's gonna happen: we'll forget you?"

**Author's Note:**

> Some scenes in this story were heavily inspired by "The VVitch," which came out in 2015. Outstanding movie; I'm really excited for "The Lighthouse," which will be directed by the same director, Robert Eggers.


End file.
